Seer Season:

An Excerpt from Blind Spot: The Covenant’s Forfeit

By Thio Isobel Moss

“Let the record state that at three minutes after eight on the evening of April the thirteenth, the Committee on Intelligence was called to order with Dumitru DeWitt, Magister of the Quorum, presiding,” the ancient gasbag crooned before hammering a gavel on the podium with startling force. With his thin greasy hair, waxy powder-blue complexion, and long spindly fingers ideal for strangulation, he wasn't merely a relic; he was a revenant. How he passed in mixed company was a mystery. “The Committee recognizes Senator Hersch. Senator, the floor is yours.”

The light dimmed over the Magister's diseased countenance and brightened on the south side of the chamber where the Unrelenting's chosen voice box waited. The harsh light limned the long, graceful lines of the Senator's figure, draped in an excess of midnight blue velvet. Evening garb was not de rigueur for the Committee, but to each her own.

The dark poisonous flower that was Acacia Hersch rose on her whisper-thin stilettos and swept the fall of jet-black hair behind one shockingly bare shoulder. Candlelight shimmered along her pale skin, luminescing like the cold white scales on the belly of a deep-sea serpent.

“Thank you, Magister. On the question regarding the rising prices of precast spells manufactured in Sanctuary, our investigation has revealed no malpractice or violation of ethics as defined by the Charter-”

Senator Balbay, sitting opposite, made a derisive sound through his teeth, without looking up from stirring his coffee.

“Yes, Rufe? Would you like to add something?” she purred, seductive as a rusty razor blade.

The Speaker for the Correctionists was unmoved.

“Only my astonishment that you can utter those words with a straight face, Acacia.”

“So noted. Moving on, the cost for a decent precast spell will continue to rise as a natural, if unfortunate, consequence of the Cleansing. With the old powers done and dusted and the pervasive ignorance among the residents of Sanctuary, it is our expectation that, even as the expense soars, the quality will plummet. Nothing to be done — unless we elect to educate the residents of Sanctuary on the very practice that led to their convictions. That said, more registered Ipseitata Dualis will likely opt to manufacture their own. This will inevitably encourage members of the Community to dabble in ley manipulation. Measures to prevent such criminal activity should be discussed when the Quorum is assembled.”

“Are you feeling poorly, Acacia? It's unlike you to miss an opportunity to gather up more inmates for that pit of a prison,” Rufe inquired with false solicitousness.

“It is not a prison,” corrected Chief Justice Irit Jackson.

Where Senator Hersch enticed, the Chief Justice remained aloof. The lines of her ultra-modern pantsuit were so sharp, they looked lethal.

“There are no barred cells, no wardens, no restrictions on where the residents go within the city limits or when.” Her powerful voice echoed, creating the sensation of divine intervention.

O'Brien allowed his head to fall back and gazed up at the curious starburst pattern repeated in the millwork gracing the ceiling. “Chief Justice Jackson, they cannot leave. By definition, that is a prison,” he groaned, knowing he was allowing himself to be sucked into the oft-repeated debate, yet unable to help himself.

“Gravity prevents me from floating off into space, Chairman. I do not view Earth as my prison but my home,” retorted Senator Hersch, rolling her protuberant eyes. “Will anyone argue that the laws imposed by nature are to our benefit? The boundaries of Sanctuary benefit the warped. They can live in peace and comfort, and the rest of us can sleep easy. If you want to go back to lopping off heads, I’ll vote for that!”

“Exactly!” exclaimed the Chief Justice, thrusting her hands toward Senator Hersch as if this logic were beyond contestation.

“It's mind rape and slavery,” returned Rufe, toasting the ladies with his mug. “And very lucrative to investors. Irit, don't you own a few shares?”

There was a hideous shriek, a pulse of red eyes, the blur of movement that even the preternatural eye could not track, a spine-liquefying snarl, and a sudden wash of air. Quite invigorating! When O'Brien's vision settled, everyone was in their assigned places. Only now, Balbay was smirking as he sipped his caffeine fix.

“We could argue semantics all night, but some of us have real jobs,” Her Honor, Judge Dietricksen, interjected...with only a hint of impatience as she tapped her bloody claws on the table. It was not by accident that the movers and shakers of the Community were allowed to see her silver-gray fur recede into creamy, smooth skin as she squirted hand sanitizer onto her palm. “We must be pragmatic. The fact of the matter is that necessary evils exist and cannot be avoided. Certainly, Sanctuary's denizens are not guilty in the usual sense. However, we cannot contain practitioners without the measures in place. If we cannot contain the warped or execute them, then they will destroy the Community, and Earth will descend into chaos. Shall we move on?”

As the silence lingered, everyone looked to the podium.

Dumitru DeWitt was draped over the lectern and drooling as he sawed logs.

Her Honor rolled her eyes and barked, “Magister! Shall we move on?”

The decrepit vampire sprang upright, twirled, and, catching himself on the wooden stand, scowled at the lady in question.

“Judge Dietricksen, for shame! I will have order within these walls. That means no shouting, young lady! Behave yourself or I shall have you expelled!”

Without so much as a snicker, Rufe held out a handkerchief to the living dust-collector.

“Thank you, Senator Balbay,” DeWitt muttered, accepting the square of fine lawn and dabbing away any evidence of moisture from his chin and cravat. He blew his nose, folded the abused cloth, and handed it back.

“Keep it. I insist,” murmured the Senator, his expression stoic.

The Magister bowed graciously before turning to consult his notes.

“The Committee recognizes Minister Pendragon.”

The spotlight over the Convocation of Dverg's table illuminated, and a stocky bearded man in dark robes rose.

“Thank you, Magister,” he began, his booming voice ringing off the chandeliers. “Ladies and gentlemen, as head of the subcommittee on wild construct control, it is my duty to report an unfortunate turn of events. A team of Oxford sensitives has conducted a comparative analysis of ley activity recorded over the last century. Their findings suggest that the amount of energy in the lines is growing and, until we find a way to vent that energy, will continue to grow. Therefore, wild construct sightings and attacks will continue to rise.”

“Nature gave us a way to vent the lines,” Adam Bell, president of the Therianthrope Council, observed in his quiet, steadfast way, “and we declared war on them. This is the direct result of the Cleansing.”

“That hasn’t been proven, nor is it relevant,” spat Chief Justice Jackson.

“Of course it's relevant,” countered Balbay, laughing at the assertion. “If we fail to understand why this is happening and fail to correct the problem, the situation will not fail to get worse. Denial is not a solution.”

“What is the solution, Senator? Necromancy,” Judge Dietricksen inquired acidly. “We agree that the cause warrants an investigation, hence the formation of the subcommittee. However, we need to determine a way to deal with the problem now, regardless of its cause. I move that we draft an amendment to the budget reallocating funds from the National Preternatural Park System, the Anti-Detection Network, the Eldritch Care Program, and Cryptid Encrypted to the tune of two billion dollars to launch a new program within the Agency of Preternatural Affairs dedicated to training agents to hunt and destroy wild constructs.”

Director Serrecold smiled almost apologetically and said, “I second the motion.”

“Motion carried,” the Magister rasped, hammered his gavel, and proceeded to have a violent coughing fit lasting three full minutes. When finished, he consulted the agenda. “The draft will be presented to the Quorum in three weeks. The Committee recognizes Chairman O'Brien. Sir!”

“Thank you, Magister. Senators, Representatives, it is my privilege to inform you that the famed Seeress, Melisande Waites, has had a series of visions.”

He paused for the collective groan, humming a little under his breath as he ticked off the seconds.

“Yes, seer season is upon us once again! I know you've all been eagerly anticipating the long-awaited return of The Riddlers. Wait no more! In the first of three episodes, Ms. Waites chronicled — in iambic pentameter — the climactic pilot for Call of the Wild, a matchmaking show that sets up a lovely mundane lady with six preternatural suitors and follows the twists and turns of their romantic adventures. Will the maiden tame the beast? Or shall hunger prevail?”

He preened when Her Honor snorted.

“Chairman, recall yourself,” she pleaded.

“Of course, Your Honor. In the second vision, Ms. Waites played a long game of charades with her handlers, acting out the part of a gushing fan at a book signing, losing her cool, and involuntarily shifting forms in public. The esteemed Ms. Waites was very insistent that it be noted how compassionate the mundane author was and that the other attendees thought it quite good fun.”

“Chairman O'Brien, is there some point to this, or are you merely poking fun at the mad ramblings of a once-great and now pathetic mind? If the former, please get to it, and if the latter, remember — your time will come.”

“Yes, thank you for that PSA, Senator Balbay. There is a point — and please forgive me if I celebrate my sanity and humor, while they are both still intact. The loss of either is tragic, indeed,” he retorted.

“The third prediction is still in the process of being translated. As luck would have it, one of the nurses who attends Ms. Waites is a gamer and recognized the fictional language known as Blue Tongue. It is the secret language of the Saturniidae, a guild of pirate witches,” O'Brien savored the committee's reaction to the controversial w-word before continuing, “in the popular massively-multi-player-online-role-playing-game, Egress.”

“And?” coaxed Gilles-Eugene Serrecold, with a tiny, mischievous smirk lurking around the corners of his mouth.

The director of the Agency of Preternatural Affairs, a typical beautiful and otherworldly fae, was an odd duck. His white hair was cut short, stubble hugged his square jaw, and his pale laughing eyes missed nothing. Clad in jeans and a cotton tee, a blazer his only concession to the formal surroundings, he embraced the current age. To use the modern vernacular, he seemed pretty chill. He wasn't. The director was cheerfully ruthless. Serrecold could be friend or foe — possibly both — on any given day.

“What has been translated thus far is the dialogue of an interview between a mundane reporter and the warlock Ghost, for some sort of documentary. Ghost's participation was not entirely voluntary, it seems.”

“The point?” chided Rufe.

“Well...isn't it obvious? Whether any of these prophecies come to pass or not, the possibility that knowledge of the Community's existence will be leaked to the uninitiated must exist in the here and now.”

The cacophony that followed was everything he’d hoped for and more.

“This committee ruins everything,” President Bell howled, jabbing at his phone. “I’ve canceled my Egress account.”